


Innocent Science

by stillalivedoingscience



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Reader-Insert, Robot Kink, Robot Sex, Smut, solution euphoria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillalivedoingscience/pseuds/stillalivedoingscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Wheatley/Reader fic. Chassis Wheatley, minus the, er, evilness. This is an exploration of his sweet, sexy, and adorable side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“‘Ello, there!”  
   
Wheatley has brought you to his lair. At first, you’re a nervous and trembling mess, and you have good reason to be—he’s murderous in that chassis and it’s no secret.  
   
You swallow hard and fake a smile, fully prepared to fight for your life if he shows signs of wanting to kill you, and not a moment too late does he make a move—a terrible crash shakes the chamber floor and you stagger. The room fills with dust and you cower, your eyes fixed on the hazy bright blue glow in front of you with paramount fear.  
  
“Sorry about that.” His voice is jaunty, full of happy energy, and sincerely apologetic. You relax the smallest amount automatically, for the way he speaks reminds you of the little, innocent core Wheatley was before the chassis. “Didn’t mean to do that, but ahh…  no harm done, right? You’re okay, yeah?”  
   
The dust clears and you nod slowly, still wary of the potential threat. That is, until you catch sight of what it was that had made the racket.  
   
A bed, of all things, is now situated near the underside of the chassis. It does not cover the aperture of floor tiles in the center of the room, but sits offside by a foot or so. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you manage to choke in a small voice, “Wheatley, what’s that for?”  
   
“Oh!” He says at once and his body completes a full, 360-degree cheerful spin. You try not to check him out for fear of him catching you, but you watch nonetheless as he comes back to his usual resting position right in front of you, his eye radiant, faceplate swaying slightly as he bounces back and forth. He’s never able to keep still. “That’s for you!” he exclaims, proud. “All for you. I brought it here, all by myself. Thought you might want a little lie down… later. Or now, without napping. Yes. Napping later, sitting comfortably for now, as it’s quite a bit squishier than the floor is. So, have a seat on that, and we can have a friendly chat.”  
   
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you can feel your pulse begin to return to normal. He doesn’t seem to be making any sort of attempt to be a threat—yet. Deciding to listen to him, you take a few hesitant steps toward the bed.  
   
Close to, you can see that the dirt that had rained down from the ceiling had accumulated on the top cover in the form of a thick layer of dust. You hold your breath as you sweep it off, trying not to inhale it, and hoping he doesn’t mind you brushing it onto the floor.  
   
Wheatley remains silent, but you can feel his eye on the back of your neck. It isn’t the hungry stare reserved for the test chamber monitors, but something more reminiscent of his old core self. It makes the prickling sensation bearable in contrast to the flushed heat of embarrassment his more intense stares often cause you.   
   
Satisfied, you turn back toward him and settle into the bed—it’s surprisingly comfy. He was right—with your legs up overtop the sheets and your back against the headboard. You swallow hard as you realize that your instincts were right, he was watching you closely.  
   
“How’s that?” He asked, top shutter dropped a tiny bit lower than normal in a questioning expression. “I’ve never been on one of those, if I could be honest. They look very squishy. Bit too much so, almost, but that’s a good thing for you humans, right?”  
   
You nod and let your head fall back as you sigh. It IS a nice bed, and finally, the first feelings of true relaxation begin to seep in. He’s obviously not interested in killing you, and there isn’t anything you can think of that you’d rather have over his company right now.  
   
“Oo, look at that,” he observes your contented sigh happily. “Heh. Hmmm… this makes me sort of wish I could try it out, too… Look at you. Absolutely loving it, aren’t you? D’you think there’s… room for both of us? What would you say? Have you got… room for me? I’m a bit massive…”  
   
Dimly you are aware that you have the shining chance to offer him bedspace, but as quick as the thought enters your mind, you decide against it. The truth is that he’s far too attractive to be looking at you how he currently is while _here,_ in person, opposed to over a screen (the screens were bad enough, you bite your lower lip as you remember), let alone sharing your bed. You can feel goosebumps prickling along your skin as you think it through, realizing that he seems to be waiting for a reply from you. You shrug, but only because all the words you might have said seem to have suddenly jammed in your throat.  
   
Honestly, you didn’t plan for this. What with the threat of a giant, murderous robot, you didn’t stop to consider the possibility of him being genuinely NICE and innocent like this, let alone bringing a bed into his chamber just for you (and him as well, maybe). You’d thought about sharing a bed with him before, about all of the wonderful implications that could have under the right circumstances, but you didn’t come here to flirt or live out your fantasies and fuck him, no matter how temping such a thought was.  
   
Only, if you didn’t know any better, the aforementioned bit seemed to be exactly what Wheatley was going for.  
   
“Think this might work… yes…” He was saying, in tones far, FAR too deep and masculine and arousing to be allowed to accompany what he was doing, which seemed to be—oh god—lowering that- that magnificent body of his onto the bed and sliding himself between your feet and then pushing between your shins and then finally your knees before stopping, completely popping your personal space bubble and wringing a startled squeak from the back of your throat as he settled in with little sigh and happy nod. “There. Aaand, whoa! This IS comfy. Haha! Wow. I didn’t expect this!”  
   
His excitement was innocent and pure and infectious but in a different sort of way, pooling in your belly as you draw in a shaky breath. You have half a mind to try to squirm into a less awkward position (lamenting silently that it ISN’T as bad as it could be, as his chestplate is still quite far away from your groin) but then you feel the headboard digging into your back and remember that there isn’t a possibility of you squirming away from him without him noticing your actions and possibly being offended by them.  
   
To make matters worse, his face is a mere foot from yours now, completely within that space bubble you are actually rather fond of, watching your every move closely, drinking you in. Seeing your eyes meet his, his bottom shield rises into an unmistakeably shy smile before he glances to the side and laughs softly, every little sound and movement bashful. “Hello,” he says again as if he can’t think of anything else appropriate, “Now we’re both comfy! And I can see you quite well from here. Heh heh.”  
   
You blush and hold in a giggle of your own, biting your lip. You feel his chassis wiggle a little as he lets even more of his weight rest on the bed, and you grip the covers to maintain an appropriate distance from him as the mattress forms a rather large indent beneath him.  
   
You’d been trying to be discreet and avoid drawing his attention with your movements but you should have known better—especially so close to, with you making actual physical contact with that chassis through your jeans, Wheatley notices. “What’s wrong?” He asks sternly.  
   
You reassure him that it’s nothing, that you are fine, but you can feel him drinking in your changing vital signs as best a robot with no mouth Your breathing is a hair shallower, you’re very conscious of the dampness forming under your palms and the firmness and size of his body wedged against the inside your legs. He’s rock hard, solid, and probably smooth, too—you push the desire to touch him away. The short concentration on the feeling that he’s here, he’s _real,_ tangible and touchable and enjoying your company, has you briefly squeezing him between your knees. It sends your heartbeat into a firmer rhythm.  
   
“What is it, hm?” He asks again, his voice full of innocent concern and it pulls at your heart as you realize that Wheatley has literally no idea what he’s doing to you. Of course he doesn’t—it’s very obvious that he hasn’t even got any inkling of the rules of personal space. He doesn’t understand why snuggling up so close to a human female while sitting on a bed might make her distinctly uncomfortable and furthermore, flushed. “Is it… is it me?”  
   
There it is. It’s starting to sort of click for him, that what he’s doing is making you uncomfortable in some way. You recognize that he probably has virtually no idea WHY you should be uncomfortable, but he’s getting the point nonetheless. The notion sends a wave of disappointment through you and you find yourself saying “no” far too quickly, before you’ve even had time to think it through. Despite what logic says, you _do_ want him. You’ve

never wanted anyone so bad in your life.  
   
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice pitched an octave higher as if he knows you didn’t mean to say that, and you can feel the mattress lift as he begins to retract himself from between your knees and off the bed.  
   
ARE you sure, though, you wonder in panic. You’re afraid that if he continues with this… wonderfully naive sweetness, you might eventually reach a breaking point and initiate something a little more intimate. No, you decide, you have self-control. Even Wheatley cannot break that.  
   
“No,” you repeat softly, biting your lip guiltily at the hurt expression on his face. “No, of course not! I want you right here with me.”  
   
To solidify this point, you do something you hope will not frighten him but soothe him. You lean forward and wrap your arms loosely around his core in some semblance of a hug. You can’t see his face, but you feel his body jerk in surprise and then the most giddy, ridiculously cute laugh you have ever heard tumbles from him automatically, and you can’t help but giggle back, absolutely giddy yourself.  
   
“This is nice,” he sighs, his voice filled with contentedness. “Can we do this all day? I could do this all day. What do you say? Just sit here, forever, on this comfy bed, with you holding onto me… wonderfully warm…”  
   
Your giggles dissolve into an ecstatic grin. This isn’t so bad, you think to yourself, as you reach up absent mindedly to grip the dark twin ridges on his back. Your fingers trace up and down their sides and in reply he burrows his core into the crease of your neck and god damn it, you realize a minute too late that this is the cutest fucking thing you’ve ever felt and if he keeps acting like this, being a stupid, needy, _beautiful_ machine, there’s no way you could ever say no to him.  
   
He sighs, a deep, contented sound, and you can hear the dull plink of his optic shutters closing as you rub your thumbs all along his sides in small circles, massaging against the metal. The ridges are cool in contrast with the bulk of him, which is warm to the touch—you concentrate your efforts lower and trace the metal bars on each side as far as you can reach, then working your fingertips back up to the front of him.  
   
He melts. There’s no other word for it. The bed sinks lower as he fully relaxes. He’s putty in your hands and the knowledge sends a thrill straight up your spine. You haven’t even done much and you seriously doubt that he’s getting anything more than a very low-level pleasure response out of this, but still, he’s silent for once and _yours_ and he could be sleeping in your arms if it weren’t for the odd clicks and whirrs coming from within him and the purr of his plates’ servos shifting ever so slightly against your cheek.   
   
You let your eyes drift closed while you work, concentrating on him—the mechanical, electronic scent of him, his small sounds, the way he begins to shift under your hands as if to try to guide you to where he wants you to touch. In those minutes, everything is the feel of him beneath your fingertips, the pressure of his chestplate still resting firmly between your knees, the coolness of his core plate fluttering against your heated neck. It’s brought restlessness out in you despite how calming it is, having him like this, and you are finding it increasingly difficult to keep still and concentrate. You inch your way closer to him, bringing your knees up, holding him tighter, trying to ignore the growing, aching warmth originating between your legs.  
   
You are so caught up in him that you don’t realize he’s about to break away until a moment before he does. You release him as he wants and blush as his blue eye bathes your face in aquamarine… his expression is among the most relaxed you’ve ever seen from him. Not drained, not like anything he’d ever looked from the test euphoria, but happy. Content.  
   
“That was amazing,” he murmurs. His voice is low and deep, and he breaks off to lean into you again, nuzzling his core into the crux of your neck. You grip the sheets as you feel his body slide further up your legs to compensate for the distance you’ve made as you’d leaned back into the pillows. He’s hungry for contact and so are you, and with a gasp of surprise you feel his chest plate finally push apart your thighs.   
   
He pulls away to look at you. “I see that didn’t help you any, though,” he pauses thoughtfully. “It sure did make me feel better. I liked that. Maybe the same will work for you? The, er… thing we just did, there…” he tilts his optic, “what d’you think?”  
   
You nod dimly, flushed and flustered at the size and firmness of him between your legs and how absolutely radiant he looks peering down at you from that gorgeous body and you momentarily forget that he CAN’T massage you as he doesn’t have hands. You open your mouth to complain, but before you can speak, his sudden, smug smile catches your eye. You feel him pull away, and hold a protest in your throat as his warmth and comfort leave you. Then, you feel him push back between your thighs, respreading them with ease, but he doesn’t stop there—he presses himself all the way up until the throbbing in your groin is multiplied by the pressure, and he GRINDS. There’s no way he can know, there’s no way he could tell that he’s grinding right against that spot but whether he knows it or not, he _is,_ and your pants feel suddenly very hot and humid and awfully tight. You gasp and he grins, apparently deciding it’s a good reaction because he doesn’t stop.   
   
It’s slow and intense motions, every movement carefully planned by him, and he has you gripping the sides of the bed, biting your lip, and he isn’t even aware of _why_ you’re so flushed but it’s hot as hell and there’s no way you want him to stop. He slips away from you, removing the pressure, only to roll himself forward and up against you again, rubbing and grinding perfectly. He’s watching you from above now, deliciously pleased with himself, and as you make eye contact with him he slows before nudging against you sharply, as if trying to wring a sob from you.

"Definitely would say you are enjoying this,” his voice is low, not quite husky but decidedly flirtatious, confident and proud. “Definitely enjoying my, er… what is this called, do you know? This touching… thing."  
   
You can’t answer. You bite your tongue to swallow another groan at the sound of his beautiful voice.  
   
“No, don’t think you’ve got to stop enjoying this just cause I’ve said it!” He’s instantly flustered, in a panic cause he thinks he’s done something wrong, and he tries to pull himself away from your thighs but stops when your hands shoot forward and grip him, pulling him back as hard as you can. “Massage,” you say, your voice hoarse.  
   
He’s a machine, so pulling at him hardly makes a difference when he’s infinitely strong, but he gets the point. “I won’t stop.” He grins. Pride is back in full force. You swear his optic deepens its blush as you watch him. “All right, then, let’s not stop now… not when you’re enjoying it. Just lie back,” he instructs you, holding eye contact. “Luv.”   
   
You shiver at the nickname, and the deep, oddly intense way he’s said it before the thought is driven from your mind by Wheatley rolling into your thighs again, but this time he doesn’t stop when he reaches the top and instead of the wonderful pressure against your groin you’re so used to, you suddenly find yourself pinned gently to the bed by him. He’s on top of you,  his face is an inch from yours, staring intently as if daring you to protest.  
   
You can’t think. You’re shocked and turned on and _want_ him and the next thing you know you’re kissing him passionately. You’re kissing against the bottom of his faceplate and hazily, you worry that kisses are pointless as he doesn’t have lips, but if he thinks so he doesn’t let on. Instead, he kisses you back as best a sphere with no mouth can, matching your rhythm, breaking away at exactly the right times to allow rapid breaths to spill from you. Your hands have found their way back up his sides and are gripping his ridges, your palms sticking against the metal with sweat as you pull back, sweaty, chest heaving, and dimly apologetic. The taste of metal is on your lips and you’ve never felt so taught, you’re muggy and hot and use the break to lift your shirt up over your shoulders and off, revealing the neat bra underneath.  
   
You’re very aware of him watching your movements curiously. “Didn’t know you could do that, luv,” he sounds amused, laced with enjoyment, and the small part of you that was afraid that he would reject your bare skin falls away and you breathe a sigh of relief. “Didn’t know you could take those off, actually.”  
   
You grin and reply breathlessly, “yes, I can. I can take all pieces of clothing off when I want to.” Don’t rush this, you tell yourself. Don’t rush this. You don’t even know if he’s comfortable with this for sure yet.  
   
But you get the answer to your unasked question as his optic trails along your barely concealed breasts and he seems to collapse into you. He tilts his eye to the side, so much like a human turning their head while preparing for a kiss, before bumping against your chin with mock kisses, sweet and clumsy. You wrap your arms around him and kiss him back, groaning a little as you let your imagination wander, wondering how you’re going to do this, do _him_ … the test results obviously give him the scratch he needs if he gets the itch but you don’t want to do it like that, if you’d had the choice. You want it like this, achingly close and passionate, and not down in a cold test chamber, although if testing’s what pleases him you’d do it in a heartbeat. You could test, and then resume _this,_ and he could get you off, hell, you could get yourself off but right now. Self-pleasure isn’t a priority right now, however, you’re more preoccupied with _him_ , holding him, kissing him…   
   
Your mouth waters at the thought of having him inside you while he climaxes and you wonder what he’d be like, would he start gentle and gradually lose himself like he has so far, or would he show better self-control and make it last? Or would he collapse immediately, just as desperately as he had been in the testing chambers? The questions barely have a chance to fully surface in your hazy mind before he’s pulling away again despite your protest, but with the look on his face you stop dead in your tracks.  
   
It’s the sweetest, most eagerly embarrassed look, and you’re unsure as to why he’s gotten all squirmy and awkward for no apparent reason. He is looking at you like he’s done something wrong, like you’re about to be mad, and he doesn’t know what the punishment will be. You frown, confused, before your eyes slide down the front of him as if some part of you already knew what to expect (and you realize that you could hardly have not noticed this if you hadn’t been as hazy and lost as you are) and you’re wholly unprepared for the instant shock of arousal leaving you dizzy at the sight of him—obviously, visibly aroused for you in ways you had _not_ been expecting. He’s got an apparatus, or an adapter, quite plainly a _dick,_ one glowing slightly and metal plated and the most wonderfully huge size.  
   
He’s instantly spluttering incoherent explanations, which is just as well because you can’t process anything he’s saying anyhow, you can only stare. He narrows his optic shields and backs away, looking as though he’d very much like to hide his obvious… arousal… if he could. “Sorry. _Sorry_ ,” his voice is high-pitched again, desperate to apologize as if he thinks he’s ruined everything but you can hardly breathe to correct him, “My fault. My fault. Didn’t need to see that, did you. No. Definitely did not. I apologize. I don’t, ha,” he laughs, full of a heated embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to… to let that happen, it’s just…”  
   
He leans away, looking up toward the ceiling in a perfect impression of a man running his hands nervously through his hair before looking back down at you as you squirm and glancing away, unable to hold eye contact. You want to resume the slow grinding and kissing you’d been doing beforehand, and try to pull him back onto you without nudging against the …apparatus… but it’s useless. He won’t move.

Having his chestplate’s contact with your clothed groin removed is would-be calming, offering a nice break from the heat building between you two but the lack of pressure from his firm body has you aching for more, especially what with the view you’re getting.   
   
“It’s just… okay, hear me out, luv,” he continues, still in that absurdly cute, apologetic matter, and you grin at him muggily. “This, er… _response_ is sort of residual, from the itch.” He says the last two words insanely fast and quiet, as though hoping you won’t catch on. “Not that I absolutely need to test! Because I don’t,” he nods reassuringly. “Not a requirement anymore. Not a requirement, although it still does feel like—well, it feels bloody AMAZING, I’ll give it that, but the point is that tiny little Wheatley has got COMPLETE control over this- this _thing_ that somebody thought was a good idea to attach, here—”  
   
While he speaks, you run your hand down along the front of his chassis, stopping just short of the sensitive-looking adapter peeking out from the gap in his chestplate. You both shudder together and you feel a lance of heat shoot through your groin, only adding to the dampness as you break out in a sweat; above you, Wheatley’s eye spins a small loop.  
   
“O-okay,” he squeaks as your hand falls away, “Okay, on second thought, maybe I actually _would_ like you to… no, no, it doesn’t matter. Never mind. I’ll be fine, luv, but if you could just stop touching, just stop for a moment or several with all of this touching, as nice as it is. Because it is most definitely _not_ helping. Yes. Making this a lot harder for me than it has to be. Seriously, I can’t—ohh—”  
   
Your breath catches at his first semi-helpless sound. Your hands are on him again against his protests, gripping the edges of his chest plate, thumbs pointed inward. You apply gentle pressure, that circling motion he seemed to like so much, and exhale slowly, trying to concentrate.

He pushes persistently against your legs, the end of the so-called adapter rising up in a perfect pretend thrust, his eye shields shut tight. You keep your hands steady, knowing the motion was a silent plea for you to please touch it, despite what he’d said, but you’re not willing to give him what he wants, not yet.

He reopens his eye and looks down at you, blinking, _plink plink._ “Okay, you know what,” he starts, and his voice has lost that high quality and is filled with husky impatience instead, “On second thought, if you are going to insist on touching me, then could you… I don’t… auugh. I would really appreciate it if you could just… move your hands _lower_ …” and he whispers so quietly you barely catch it, “Grip me…”

The tip of it is standing straight up at you, straining as much as something obviously synthetic can strain. It lengthens the smallest bit under your gaze and you dimly, you recognize the mechanics of it—like the poles beneath his faceplate it’s a collapsible plated tube shape topped with a neat, shiny head. The entire thing seems to sparkle blue at you before you realize that the reason it’s glowing is because it’s set with thousands of tiny sensors the exact shade of blue as the deep, outside rings of his optic. The largest of these sensors sits at the very end facing you, color pulsing a little in flickers of a lighter blue interlaced with the dark.

You feel him pull away a little, as if embarrassed again, but with your heart pounding inside your chest you let your hand slide from his side, fingertips trailing lower as he’d asked. You’ve decided it’s time to explore him, to see if this bit is capable of giving him the sort of bliss you _so_ want him to have. You want to make sure he comes hard, and first.

Wheatley stops pulling away and makes an appreciative noise at the feeling of fingers making their way lower. He gasps as your hand makes the first contact with the thing, his body thrusting lightly toward you and into your hand involuntarily as his face jerks forward with the motion. He holds a ridiculously cheerful, pleased grin, as dim and muggy as it is, he’s clearly enjoying himself so far. You squeeze lightly. The length of him is surprisingly warm to the touch.

“Yes, that’s it.” He’s breathless already and you’ve only just started. Your jeans become even more uncomfortable at the sound of his voice, his happy groan and deeply uttered words. To sate the feeling you try to focus on him fully again, moving your palm and fingers in slow, almost kneading motions against the smooth, unyielding metal. “Yes, oh, grip me, luv,” he instructs needlessly, but you’re always happy to hear him talk. “Tightly, just like that…”

The tiny sensors sparkle brightly with each touch, fading into lighter blues under the stimulus. His eye appears to brighten as well, aperture refocusing on you, your flushed face, your hands, your bare stomach—but the heat burning inside is slowly being replaced with the restless desire to please him.

The feeling peaks when he talks. “Yeah,” his voice is deep and loud this time and he commands, “Do that.” Your thumb rests right over the sensor-rich pad where the artificial head meets the shaft, ghosting over it with small strokes while both palms cling to the shaft. “Do that. Do that… the… massage thingy, or whatever it’s called. Oh, yes. _Yes_. This is… it’s not _quite_ as wonderful as testing but _oh…_ you feel _great._ That feels great. Ohh,” he chuckles breathlessly, “Keep doing that.”

You’re gasping with him, you’re a hot, sweaty mess. You lean into him and line his lower plate with gentle kisses, thumb massaging his head feverishly as you flick your tongue against his plating. He moves to close up his core and, as your hands are busy, on a whim you bite down softly and pull it back open.

He makes a barely audible sound of protest in reply, but you’re not sure if the whine is coming from the tiny servos responsible for the movement of this piece of his casing or if it’s from him; whichever, he’s suddenly trying to slide himself further up on top of your pelvic bone. “None of that,” he says in faint disapproval, half-heartedly trying to pull you off, but you can tell he’s enjoying it all the same. “If you want to use that,” he nudges his faceplate against your forehead, meaning your gently sucking lips, “How about you try that where it’ll feel even better, eh? Had a thought, and I’ve decided that it might be nice for you to use your mouth. Not that I’m not enjoying this, your hands, luv, because I am, but if you’re going to suck me anyways…” His servos whine again as he strains harder to pull you off with a light groan. You release him finally and he presses his chestplate to your lower belly with a growl that resonates through your ribs, and a breathy sigh escapes you at the sensation of his smoothness and solidness brushing against your bare skin.

“All right, luv.” He’s smiling at you from above. You hold his gaze for a second, your heartbeat racing, before you look back down to the head of his artificial erection, pointed straight at your face. It’s still held loosely in your right hand. You remove your fingers and stroke the sides of his chassis instead, and inhale a deep, steadying breath in preparation. He makes a low, appreciative noise, watching you lick your lips, and you feel him rock himself forward impatiently.

He’s always impatient, when it comes to this kind of thing, you know. He could never wait. He’s still grinning hazily, his optic as blue as his sensors, plates shifting as he wiggles his way toward your mouth, mumbling too quietly for you to make out. You feel your breath cut short as the weight of him presses down on your chest, white plate resting just below your breasts, firm against your breastbone. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, but an unforgettable reminder that he’s got you pinned and under control from this position, which brings forth another shiver and wave of heat as you feel the oddly warm tip of him prod hesitantly against your lips.

It’s almost as if he’s done it by accident; it's as if he hadn’t meant to let himself become overwhelmed enough to even suggest that you please him, after the bad experiences with testHe moves to release you and pull away again, spluttering apologies and regret about the desire to penetrate you, but before he can break away from you, you pull him close and slide him part way into your mouth.

His apologies are instantly cut off by a moan of appreciative surprise. “Ohhhhh…”

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	2. Chapter 2

Swirling your tongue around him, you found that bits—probably the subtly glowing sensor nodes—were raised, forming smooth little bumps along the shaft. These were concentrated around the tapering tip, giving way to a slight crease at the base of his head. You let your lips tighten around this in a gentle, snug hug, sucking in a slow, throbbing motion, trying to concentrate through the full-on blush his sounds were bringing out of you. He was somewhat quiet, but you could hear it, he was whining in time with your suction, a slow, almost grunting sound. And the look on his face, ohh man, it had taken him almost no time at all to give the closest a core could come to a tense lip bite, his big blue optic focused on not a single thing except for you and the pleasure he was receiving from your slowly sucking mouth.   
  
You fingered his body's side plates, lining the grooves, tracing the red lights, fingertips running along the seams of his plates. He felt pleasantly warm and his weight and pressure resting just between your thighs felt incredibly nice, in an increasingly uncomfortable sort of way. He had you itchy, there was no point in denying it now, and it was doing nothing but getting worse in the most horrible and yet tantalising sort of way as he wiggled himself forwards a little, aching to slide further into your mouth, anxious for you to pleasure more than just the head.  
  
When he spoke, his voice was different. It wasn't quite the drugged, needy sound that impending euphoria had brought out in him in the past, but it was still nice and deep and would could have been nearly relaxed if it weren't for the fact that he was beginning to grow impatient. "Mm, now here's an idea," he murmured quietly over the sound of his fans whirring away, leaning as close as he could to your ear as if to whisper, "Why don't you do that to the WHOLE thing, luv? And not just the tip. Please. Fair enough, that's the- the important bit, right there, oh yes that’s it, but if you could just refrain from leaving out... the other parts... nngh, suck me good, luv, suck the whole thing, please..."  


  
Your reply was to do your best to rub your tongue against the sensor-rich pad you knew was located right at the tip, and the resultant sigh he made was deep and breathless and the way his body arched beneath your hands to shift closer into your mouth made your own breath catch and your heart beat increase frantically. You did as he wanted, breathing in sharply at the resulting happy whining sound he made as you slid him deep. "Ohh, yes," his groan was drawn out and shuddered along with his core plates as he stretched and let his eye slide blissfully shut in a blink before he reopened it and looked down at you, happy and restless and clearly almost aching with excitement from the pleasurable stimulation.  
  
God, it was exactly what you wanted, and you toyed with the idea of teasing but you were already aching bad enough yourself to want to hurry up and get on with it. He felt great against your tongue, all smooth and ribbed and WARM, and paying attention to that feeling and thinking about how good he’d feel with that length inside of you had you squirming, wanting him lower, wanting him to show you exactly what he could do with that thrusting motion he’d teased you with earlier. But for now, he seemed to be enjoying this, and if you could bring him to a shuddering climax more than once you would, you most definitely would.  
  
So you breathed in a deep, steadying breath, trying to clear your head (which seemed to be buzzing, almost dizzy with arousal) and set to work; his reactions were the best part. He began to coax you, his voice sometimes low and rumbling, sending vibration straight through his body, sending more heat into your groin; and other times he'd whine and strain and let you know that what you were doing was aaaalmost enough to get him there but not quite. Wheatley had never had much self-control, you knew, and with minimal effort you could have him pleading, straining and desperate for release, if you so desired. It would undoubtedly take a little longer that way, but it might be worth it, and he deserved it, you had to admit. He could be incredibly arousing when he was being teased—you’d seen him in the test chambers, heard the whining, and had witnessed the obvious anticipation for the solution. Your eyes flicked upward to look at him, taking in the way his plates were moving, the fidgety and edginess was there but he was not yet wound tight enough to break. He deserved to only come once he couldn't take any more, you decided, and your hands were back on him as you thought of how delicious it would be to tease and make him groan and ache all over, like how you were aching—you wanted him begging, wanted to hear that exact pant-y, breath-y sound that was currently beginning to spill from a core with no mouth, no lungs. Perfect. He was already almost there... much less work for you to do…  
  
You were moving faster now, still hanging on to some semblance of leisure but quick enough to force him into a sudden, high pitched little 'oh' sound that you liked rather a lot. He sounded so good when he was like this, under the influence of pleasure—his voice did wonders for you normally with its sheer versatility, the way he’d go from excited, panicked little squeaks to deep, commanding words that held sexy authority. His fans were loud now, and you shifted lightly against the headboard, dimly aware of just how far he'd pushed you up the bed—the change had been to accommodate for the way his chassis had pulled back a little bit. The joint at his middle was quite tense and he’d strained even further forward as a result, causing the ‘collar’ of his chestplate to be raised to about eye-level, which was nice—it made the sucking so easy, and you let yourself lie back almost lazily against the headboard, hooking your fingers around his collar, squeezing the nice, smooth bottom of his shell between your raised knees. It was an extremely pleasant position, comfortable for both of you, even allowing him to match your rhythm with short little thrusts which bumped him against your groin each time.

 

 

He seemed to be having just as much fun as you were having. "keep it up! Keep it up!” he called out breathily. “Oh, yes! Keep doing that! Augghhhh. NOW, we're getting somewhere... ohhh, come on..." and keep going you did, sliding him right in until the smooth ridge at the base of his lovely, big head caught the ledge where your moth opened to the back of your throat with each movement. It was almost painful, but god did he like it—the resultant, almost triumphant groan of surprise made it so worth it you could hardly breathe. "Auuughh, yes!” He called, ecstatic about this new, good feeling, and oh he was passionate about it, rolling his eye inside of his casings, fidgeting and squirming exponentially as he began to actually thrust up into you in such a way that every suck resulted in that wonderful-painful feeling of him catching the ridge of his head on the back of your throat. But you wouldn't let him have it for long, no, you hadn’t forgotten about teasing him. You weren’t going to let him finish, not yet, he wasn't ready yet—right now Wheatley just felt _good_ , you could see it. His eye was bright and wide and tilted upwards, and every so often he’d shake his core back and forth, making a noise that had anticipation of the impending relief of climax written all over it. He was about to come, but not before you’d pulled him all the way out, exposing the glowing, sensitive nodes and causing him to strain and whimper in such a way that sent heat pulsing between your legs.  
  
Wheatley was nudging you gently, continuing on in that same rhythm he seemed to like so much without you for a second as if he wished with all his heart that you’d keep going. Where his groans had been deep a moment before, they were suddenly high-pitched again, aching and frustrated and completely unfulfilled. You leaned right back against the headboard, now able to properly see the look on his face as he no longer had it tilted up toward the ceiling. Optic wide and pleading, he pressed the most itchy part of him against your belly and kept that delicious pressure against your groin—but you knew it was only because he was too tense and stiff to properly uncoil himself at his hinge. Ohh, it felt good to have his weight there, gently holding you, pinning you lightly against the headboard like that—and you shuddered, trying to keep your face straight for bliss as he growled and called out in the most confused, innocent, whiny voice you’d ever heard from him, "Why'd you STOP?!"  
  
If he was angry, he was too on edge to do anything about it except squirm and plead with you. "Oh, let’s continue," he whined, impatient enough to string the words together by accident. “Let’s continue, please. I was almost _there._ I was almost done, seriously, you can’t stop now, I haven’t felt like it was that close in so _long—_ oh, please!” He had his faceplate almost completely retracted from his core, zoomed in on your face so close you could touch him. You leant forward and began to use your mouth to kiss him sweetly instead of an answer, prompting him to try to spin it around and move it away but your hands caught his bottommost core panel in an attempt to keep him in place. He whined again as you used both of your thumbs and index fingers to hold the plate between them, rubbing gently in small circles on the inside and outsides at the same time. He pulled away a little, squinting down at you, not even bothering to properly close his eye but leaning his faceplate back in a sign of light pleasure as you pulled your gently massaging fingers downward, prying his core open. He tried to close up but instead of letting him do as he wanted you traced the plate almost all the way back to the place where it connected to the chassis, still circling, fingers lining the middle of the two sections before working your way back out, changing it up into long, lengthy strokes.  
  
He squinted even further until his eye was nothing but a tiny slit, making a noise caught between a groan and a growl. "Oh, please," he choked needily. “Oh, _please,_ luv, put it back, put me back in there, please do it, I’ll- I’ll be _so_ good, really, I promise, and when we’re done you can have whatever you want! Seriously. Just, ohh,” you felt the length of him moving, so taught he was quivering against your belly. "Just, _please_..."  
    
You removed your hands from the inside of his core and gave another soft kiss to the side of his optic plate. This close-to, you could hear the tiny scrape of his optic shields drawing open a fraction to stare at you. He made to speak, but before he could say anything you pressed your lips to the bottom of his faceplate repeatedly to calm him and he went quiet, the look on his face still desperate and tense but he was momentarily quiet.  
  
He let you stay like that for what felt like a surprisingly long while, not touching him much except to drag your lips along the edge of his plate, giving kisses that involved brief suckling. He must have been able to feel it more like that because he made a small, encouraging noise and lifted up to allow you better access to it, blinking slowly. He seemed to be relishing the kisses, his body heavy, almost collapsing into you. It was almost like the massage you’d given him earlier, a nice break from the restless intensity of the sucking but you could still feel that his body was straining, taught and needing to finish. You hadn't really forgotten, especially not with the way that hard piece on the front of him was pressing, ever so firmly, into your belly, drawing out heat from your own.   
  
"Do you want to come, Wheatley?" you whispered, holding his faceplate between your lips while you spoke, so that he could feel the motion of your voice. You knew he did, but you wanted to hear him say it. “I’ll let you come this time, if you like.”  
  
“Oo, yes!” he nodded excitedly, faceplate bobbing. “Man alive, do I! Right in here, luv.” He pressed his faceplate briefly against your chin and rubbed it a little, as if nuzzling you. "Fill you right up nicely. All you’ve got to do is finish it, just like in testing. I know you know how to do that!” he beamed.  
  
"You want me to press the button?" You asked in a teasing voice as you moved lower, preparing to take him back inside of your mouth for the final time. He shifted upward, off of you, but didn't regain all of the tension in the way he held himself until you opened your mouth and gave a long lick at the biggest, most sensor rich pad, massaging it with the tip of your tongue. He sighed and lifted himself so that he was right against your face. You could lean back against the headboard and still reach him, he was so close.   
  
"Oo, luv, please press it." He was teasing back, you could tell, but there was naked need obvious beneath the playful tone. You licked at him a little more with sharp, repetitive little flicks, pretending the big blue pad was a button that you were doing a good job of giving a few presses a second. His simulated breathing became audible alongside yours as the feeling of him straining against your groin became more pronounced, his body arching, pushing against the tight, hot fabric. You'd been itching for so long now, and it was so uncomfortable, but you grit your teeth and closed your eyes and sighed— _Wheatley first_. It would only take a little longer. You had to take care of him first, let him come, hopefully come well—you gave him one last, long teasing lick and positioned your hands on the sides of his hot body, feeling the vibration of whirring fans there. Then, you slid him slowly inside your mouth, taking care not to be too rough when he was clearly on the knife's edge of sensations; the device itself was hot, almost overly sensitive, unsatisfied, and aching.  
  
"Ohh, yes, that's better," he chuckled as he wiggled to press himself further inside. His optic narrowed with the effort but you wouldn't let him take over, oh no, you wanted to be the one in charge this time, the one solely responsible for bringing him shuddering over the edge. "Oo, thaaaat's it. That's _greaaat_. Absolutely tremendous, I can feel that building up nicely again... Ohoh, that _does_ feel good. That feels really good. You've almost got it, now. Haven't you. You’re almost, ah," he looked down at you, and chuckled shyly again but his face displayed nothing but eager, excited need. "Almost there. Almost done. Thaaaaat's it, luv, keep going, keep doing it—oh, you’re good, you're right there, right on _top_ of the solution..."

He seemed sure, but the slow, gentle pace wasn't doing it for him. He talked a bit more about how he was going to come, describing how good it would feel when he did, squinting his eye shut again, but it didn't happen, try as he might to get himself over the edge, he just couldn’t come. He began to plead and shake in a way that almost seemed like something was wrong with him. Was it too much? You slowed and stopped suckling altogether and he broke then, whining and begging and moving his body against your mouth in sharp, firm thrusts that you felt sure would feel very, very good later on, but for now only served to increase the heat and stimulation in your groin and leave him even more on edge and desperate. “Oh, oh, oh,” he whimpered in time with his thrusts. “Oh. Give it to me. Oh. Please. Come on. Luv. Please.” Deciding to try something else, because you HAD to find a way to solve this for him, you let him hump your mouth like that this time, staying still and applying the necessary suction to his shallow, pleasure-hungry thrusts. He was quick, able to produce erratic bursts of motion that almost felt akin to vibration they were so fast, making a loud sound of pleasure each time as he did it of the likes you'd never heard from him before—like the test euphoria moans, it was long, but it held none of the release. He sounded crazy and desperate, and finally, collapsed into a gasping, panting mess as he gave up, pushed to the bloody edge, crying at himself for being unable to trigger that euphoria. The sensor nodes shone bright white hyperstimulation at how fucking hard he was but try as he might, he just couldn’t do it himself.   
  
"You- you do it," he panted, almost completely spent. "You do it. Do it, _now_.” Normally you would have been annoyed by the commanding-ness in his voice, but you knew he’d had enough and, furthermore, you knew it was your fault he was like this.  
  
It took a while, you had him back in the place he’d seemed to like the most, with the ridge of his head riding against the rough spot in the back of your throat, catching it and creating friction that clearly felt pretty marvellous for him. With every thrust he made a delicious gasping noise, and each time you slid him back out, that nice ridge of his head would catch again and he'd shudder in his core casings and moan each time. His top optic shield was dropped as low as it would go and his body leant forward in anticipation for a burst that still wasn't coming. His moans became higher with each motion, each one more guttural and more needy than the last. Eventually it became like he'd given up on coming altogether and was clumsily set on doing this forever and ever. If he wasn't going to get that rush of euphoria, then he could at least have this, right? He was warm, oh his body was so warm, you dragged your palms along his gently vibrating casings, vibrating from the motions of his rapid fans. You couldn’t properly see his face, as he was looking up, staring at some place up high but you knew he wasn’t really seeing. He was too busy working with you, as one machine, your hands guiding him and caressing his chestplate and his voice and motions telling you all you needed to know. You were almost able to feel how tight the itching knot inside of him had grown through them; dizzy, you wanted to stay like this forever, the bed starting to squeak as your hips started moving with his body, hips rising to meet him, only increasing the building sensation of moisture. Lost in him, you couldn’t concentrate, you moaned with him still in your mouth, twisting your tongue, letting him slide forcefully up, almost painfully. You kept going like that for a while and you knew you must have been doing something right by the sounds he was making, and then, finally, with hardly any warning, no time for him to babble his excitement about being close to finishing or anything of that sort that he liked to do at all, he was coming. He was coming _hard._

It was equally, pleasantly surprising to both of you—one minute you're thrusting against him feeling him fuck your throat passionately and the next, the thrusting was broken by his strong jerk as the pleasure peaked. He pressed himself deeply inside and waited there for it to start, arching forward as it did, moaning and pumping something hot and sticky into your mouth, making you choke. Even in his pleasure he hasn't got the energy to lift himself up very far, so the way he arches is gentle and lazy; his optic’s glazed and has rolled up right behind his shields and this is the best one, the best solution, even better than that first test for him, you can absolutely tell. You can hear it in the way he's nearly shouting and feel it in the way he's trembling, it's a fantastic end, it’s everything you've ever wanted to give him and totally worth the wait. He makes a series of pants and moans and long, drawn out ‘yeeess's, and groans a final, long time, wracked with release before sliding himself out of your mouth. His optic is heavily lidded with exhaustion as he looks at you and chuckles blissfully, suddenly sated and loose and content. It’s as if he could drift immediately into sleep mode, if you'd let him, but your hips are still straining, rubbing up against his chestplate of their own accord and you're ready, you're so ready to feel him deep inside of you—

%MCEPASTEBIN%%MCEPASTEBIN%


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